Chazwick Thurman
Undeserved Ascendance
chapter 18
by
copier
· original author:
an188
Angel lounged in the oversized hot tub, water bubbling around his seven-foot frame like a cauldron of adoration. Steam curled up from the surface, mingling with the scent of grease and cheese from the pizza massacre surrounding him. He’d devoured another stack—whole pies folded and shoved into his mouth like they were nothing, sauce dripping down his chin onto the massive shelves of his pecs. His free hand caressed the ridged expanse of his abs, feeling the unyielding muscle beneath porcelain skin. The hunger was insatiable—a bottomless void that his new body demanded be filled.
“Goddamn, this appetite’s fiercer than a demon in heat,” he muttered, Brooklyn accent thick with smug satisfaction. “Guess bein’ a superman means eatin’ like one too. More fuel for the fire, toots.”
He licked sauce off his long, chrome-pink nails, then reached for his burner phone—waterproof, naturally. Time to check the feeds. He logged in under one of his anonymous personas: “BubblegumBabe99,” a silly Valley-girl character with a pink avatar and bio full of heart emojis and “YOLO” vibes. He scrolled profiles of people he followed—rival porn stars, industry gossips, random celebs—news flashes popping up between thirst traps and memes.
Under the water, his other hand drifted lower. He traced the veined length of his monstrous cock—still semi-hard, always ready. With a wicked grin, he pushed one long finger into the slit. The stretch was immediate—tight, electric, sharper than any regular stroke. Pleasure spiked through him like lightning; he moaned softly, hips bucking beneath the surface. It was better than masturbation—deeper, more invasive, like fucking himself from the inside. “Oh, yeah… that’s the spot, doll. New body perks? Check.”
He scrolled faster, boredom creeping in. Nothing caught his eye—same old scandals, same tired drama. He was about to toss the phone aside and devote himself fully to the finger-fuck when a trivial news blurb flashed: “Brazen Daylight Robbery in Havenridge’s Skid Row—Thieves Hit Convenience Store, Flee on Foot.”
The article was trash—local fluff about some petty heist in one of Havenridge’s rundown neighborhoods. But Angel’s superhuman vision—sharpened to eagle-like precision—zeroed in on the background of the grainy crime-scene photo. A thin, well-built man slipping into an apartment building across the street. To a normal eye, it was a blur of pixels—unrecognizable. But Angel saw it clear as day: short, evergreen hair sticking straight up like a bad punk cut, missing tooth on the right side grinning through the shadow, small scar over the right eye, two faint lines on the chest visible through a thin shirt, another on the upper left arm.
Chazwick Thurman. Or as Angel called him: Chazzy. Or Herpes the Clown.
Angel’s beautiful, sensual, feminine face twisted into a mask of rage. His muscles tensed—pecs swelling larger, veins bulging like twisted ropes across his abs and arms. He was terrifying—terrible and terribly sexy, a storm of power and beauty ready to erupt.
“That slimy little fuck,” he snarled, voice dropping to a venomous growl. “Chazzy the Chump. Thought I’d forgotten you, herpes-boy?”
Chaz had been a nobody in porn—a cocky jokester who strutted around sets like he owned them, bragging about his “massive dick” (a lie; average at best) and his endless conquests (also lies; most women laughed him off). He didn’t respect boundaries—always pushing, groping, lying his way into beds. Greedy, sexually obsessed, dishonest as hell. And stupid. So stupid.
They’d worked together a few times—Chaz as a background stud in Angel’s films. But the clown couldn’t handle Angel’s endurance; shoots dragged on because Chaz kept tapping out, whining about “too much.” In a pathetic bid to save face, he’d spread rumors: Angel’s dick wasn’t that big. Angel had STDs. Nasty shit.
Angel had crushed him. Public humiliation—leaked footage of Chaz’s failures, anonymous posts exposing his lies, whispers in the right ears. Chaz was blackballed, kicked out of the industry. But the grudge lingered.
With his super vision, Angel zoomed in on the photo—focusing like a telescope. The street sign: Elmwood Ave. Building number: 247. He squinted harder—mailboxes visible through the lobby window. Names blurred to humans, but not to him. There: “C. Thurman – Apt 3B.”
Angel’s rage turned cold, calculating. “Gotcha, you herpes-riddled clown. Hidin’ in some shithole slum. Time for a reunion.”
He plotted revenge: snap the neck, crush the skull, make it slow and personal. No conscience pinged—Angel had never had one. Murder was just business, especially now.
But his high intelligence kicked in—cold, analytical. The apartment was across the city. He couldn’t just stroll there—seven feet of naked muscle would draw every eye, every camera. He needed stealth.
His gaze swept the room—landing on two things. A black rubber suit hanging in Cherri’s closet (some kink leftover, probably). And on the massive wall TV: a trailer for the new Spider-Man film, webs slinging across skyscrapers.
A wicked smile split his face.
“Jackpot,” he purred.
He rose from the tub—water cascading off his body like a waterfall over cliffs—and toweled off with a massive bath sheet. The rubber suit was at least two sizes too small, but he unzipped the front and squeezed in. His massive pecs bulged out the open zipper, broad shoulders straining the seams until they split, exposing pale skin and veined muscle. He adjusted—freeing his cock from beneath, letting it hang heavy and free.
Outside, storm clouds roiled over Havenridge—thunder rumbling, rain starting to lash the balcony. Perfect cover. No one would spot a muscular androgynous giant swinging through the deluge.
He stepped to the railing, aimed his cock upward, and fired a thick, sticky rope of cum. It arced through the rain, sticking to a taller building’s ledge across the street.
“Spider-Man, eat your heart out,” he quipped, voice dripping smug glee. “This web-shooter’s got extras.”
He leaped—wind whipping his white hair—caught the rope mid-swing, and pulled himself up. He fired another—thicker, longer—arcing to the next rooftop. Swing after swing, he traversed the city—stopping on ledges to check his phone, GPS guiding him through the storm. Rain slicked his skin, rubber suit gleaming wet, muscles flexing with each pull.
Option 1: He arrives at Chazwick's building without incident, rain and darkness providing perfect cover.
Option 2: On the way, a lightning strike hits a nearby building, causing a power outage and drawing first responders—forcing Angel to improvise a detour through crowded alleys.
“Goddamn, this appetite’s fiercer than a demon in heat,” he muttered, Brooklyn accent thick with smug satisfaction. “Guess bein’ a superman means eatin’ like one too. More fuel for the fire, toots.”
He licked sauce off his long, chrome-pink nails, then reached for his burner phone—waterproof, naturally. Time to check the feeds. He logged in under one of his anonymous personas: “BubblegumBabe99,” a silly Valley-girl character with a pink avatar and bio full of heart emojis and “YOLO” vibes. He scrolled profiles of people he followed—rival porn stars, industry gossips, random celebs—news flashes popping up between thirst traps and memes.
Under the water, his other hand drifted lower. He traced the veined length of his monstrous cock—still semi-hard, always ready. With a wicked grin, he pushed one long finger into the slit. The stretch was immediate—tight, electric, sharper than any regular stroke. Pleasure spiked through him like lightning; he moaned softly, hips bucking beneath the surface. It was better than masturbation—deeper, more invasive, like fucking himself from the inside. “Oh, yeah… that’s the spot, doll. New body perks? Check.”
He scrolled faster, boredom creeping in. Nothing caught his eye—same old scandals, same tired drama. He was about to toss the phone aside and devote himself fully to the finger-fuck when a trivial news blurb flashed: “Brazen Daylight Robbery in Havenridge’s Skid Row—Thieves Hit Convenience Store, Flee on Foot.”
The article was trash—local fluff about some petty heist in one of Havenridge’s rundown neighborhoods. But Angel’s superhuman vision—sharpened to eagle-like precision—zeroed in on the background of the grainy crime-scene photo. A thin, well-built man slipping into an apartment building across the street. To a normal eye, it was a blur of pixels—unrecognizable. But Angel saw it clear as day: short, evergreen hair sticking straight up like a bad punk cut, missing tooth on the right side grinning through the shadow, small scar over the right eye, two faint lines on the chest visible through a thin shirt, another on the upper left arm.
Chazwick Thurman. Or as Angel called him: Chazzy. Or Herpes the Clown.
Angel’s beautiful, sensual, feminine face twisted into a mask of rage. His muscles tensed—pecs swelling larger, veins bulging like twisted ropes across his abs and arms. He was terrifying—terrible and terribly sexy, a storm of power and beauty ready to erupt.
“That slimy little fuck,” he snarled, voice dropping to a venomous growl. “Chazzy the Chump. Thought I’d forgotten you, herpes-boy?”
Chaz had been a nobody in porn—a cocky jokester who strutted around sets like he owned them, bragging about his “massive dick” (a lie; average at best) and his endless conquests (also lies; most women laughed him off). He didn’t respect boundaries—always pushing, groping, lying his way into beds. Greedy, sexually obsessed, dishonest as hell. And stupid. So stupid.
They’d worked together a few times—Chaz as a background stud in Angel’s films. But the clown couldn’t handle Angel’s endurance; shoots dragged on because Chaz kept tapping out, whining about “too much.” In a pathetic bid to save face, he’d spread rumors: Angel’s dick wasn’t that big. Angel had STDs. Nasty shit.
Angel had crushed him. Public humiliation—leaked footage of Chaz’s failures, anonymous posts exposing his lies, whispers in the right ears. Chaz was blackballed, kicked out of the industry. But the grudge lingered.
With his super vision, Angel zoomed in on the photo—focusing like a telescope. The street sign: Elmwood Ave. Building number: 247. He squinted harder—mailboxes visible through the lobby window. Names blurred to humans, but not to him. There: “C. Thurman – Apt 3B.”
Angel’s rage turned cold, calculating. “Gotcha, you herpes-riddled clown. Hidin’ in some shithole slum. Time for a reunion.”
He plotted revenge: snap the neck, crush the skull, make it slow and personal. No conscience pinged—Angel had never had one. Murder was just business, especially now.
But his high intelligence kicked in—cold, analytical. The apartment was across the city. He couldn’t just stroll there—seven feet of naked muscle would draw every eye, every camera. He needed stealth.
His gaze swept the room—landing on two things. A black rubber suit hanging in Cherri’s closet (some kink leftover, probably). And on the massive wall TV: a trailer for the new Spider-Man film, webs slinging across skyscrapers.
A wicked smile split his face.
“Jackpot,” he purred.
He rose from the tub—water cascading off his body like a waterfall over cliffs—and toweled off with a massive bath sheet. The rubber suit was at least two sizes too small, but he unzipped the front and squeezed in. His massive pecs bulged out the open zipper, broad shoulders straining the seams until they split, exposing pale skin and veined muscle. He adjusted—freeing his cock from beneath, letting it hang heavy and free.
Outside, storm clouds roiled over Havenridge—thunder rumbling, rain starting to lash the balcony. Perfect cover. No one would spot a muscular androgynous giant swinging through the deluge.
He stepped to the railing, aimed his cock upward, and fired a thick, sticky rope of cum. It arced through the rain, sticking to a taller building’s ledge across the street.
“Spider-Man, eat your heart out,” he quipped, voice dripping smug glee. “This web-shooter’s got extras.”
He leaped—wind whipping his white hair—caught the rope mid-swing, and pulled himself up. He fired another—thicker, longer—arcing to the next rooftop. Swing after swing, he traversed the city—stopping on ledges to check his phone, GPS guiding him through the storm. Rain slicked his skin, rubber suit gleaming wet, muscles flexing with each pull.
Option 1: He arrives at Chazwick's building without incident, rain and darkness providing perfect cover.
Option 2: On the way, a lightning strike hits a nearby building, causing a power outage and drawing first responders—forcing Angel to improvise a detour through crowded alleys.
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June 13
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